


goodness gracious (i can't seem to stop)

by owlvsdove



Series: soft shock [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma and Fitz try to do laundry. Things get weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	goodness gracious (i can't seem to stop)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based off [a TFLN](http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-58292.html) that Jen sent me a while back. Although the plot sort of veers off from that...
> 
> Also please go read part one first if you haven't yet. <3

 

 

“You know, I never asked you to do this! You just barged your way in, with your womanly charm, and started moving my stuff around!”

Jemma rolls her eyes.

“You can’t live among piles of dirty laundry, Fitz. I’m surprised you haven’t run out of clothes already.” He shrugs, and that shrugging strikes fear into her heart. “You’ve been picking things up off the floor and putting them on, haven’t you?”

He shrugs again.

She sighs. “How have you made it this long without learning how to do laundry? We’ve been at Academy for, what, a year and a half? Plus you were on your own at uni.” He rubs the back of his neck. She groans. “What?”

“I, you know, I go home every few—”

“ _No_ ,” she breaks in, disbelieving. 

“I just put it all in my suitcases and my mum—”

“ _Fitz_.”

“It’s a very delicate operation! A system I have spent years developing. And you come in here with your proper responsible guns blazing—” She rolls her eyes at this. “—Mucking up my perfect plan.”

“And what did you plan to do when we got out of Academy? No more scheduled breaks to make your mum do your laundry,” she derides.

“I figured by then I would’ve built a robot who would do it for me.”

She thrusts the laundry basket towards him wordlessly, which he starts to load up just as she starts shoving his things into a garbage bag.

“This is shaping up to be a real fun night,” he complains. “I’m _so_ _glad_ you came over.”

“Would you relax? I brought something that will help us pass the time.”

“Yeah?”

She moves to her bag (which is resting on the bed, his bed, the bed where he pulled her panties off, _okay_ ) and pulls out a large bottle of whiskey.

He raises an eyebrow. “How’d you get your hands on that?”

“I have my ways.”

He gives her a look.

“Okay, I paid someone at the Boiler Room to get me a whole bottle.”

“Why?”

“I knew you wouldn’t do this unless I bribed you.”

“Fair point.”

 

 

 

 

The laundry room is empty because it’s Friday night and almost everyone has something better to do.  He says as much.

“Well, _you_ don't have something better to do. This is the best you've got.”

“And what about you?” he scoffs.

“I've sacrificed my Friday night to help you because I'm an excellent friend.” She drops the garbage bag in front of the long row of machines with a huff, appraising the pile. “So you’re supposed to separate it into whites, colors, and darks,” she starts.

Something about her tone makes him give her a look. “There’s no way you do that every time.”

“I do! Most times.”

He rolls her eyes and opens up the machine closest to him, starting to shovel clothes in.

“Fitz?”

“Mmm?”

“That’s a dryer.”

“You know, it _felt_ like the wrong machine.”

She rolls her eyes.

He opens a different machine and cocks his head at her. She nods. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her open her own machine and dump a bag of his clothes in unceremoniously.

“Bit indelicate, don’t you think?” he says.

“I’m _not_ sorting through your pants, Fitz.”

“It’s not like you haven’t seen them before,” he mutters.

She cuts him a short, withering look before returning to her task. She gets her machine sorted quickly enough, dumping a generous portion of laundry soap in along with it. He watches carefully and follows her lead. When the machines start rumbling ominously, Jemma hops atop a dryer.

“You'd think there'd be at least one other person here,” Fitz says, leaning against her machine. “One other person in desperate need of clean laundry, just as boring as us.”

“We're not boring, Fitz.”

“Boring for a Friday night, I mean. I don't think you're boring.”

“I don't think you're boring either,” she says, uncapping the bottle. He'd almost forgotten about it. She takes a long swig and her face screws up at the bitterness. It's possibly the most adorable thing he's ever seen. She hands the bottle over.

“I think,” he says after he's swallowed some, “That I am a bit boring, compared to the wider standard. But maybe not here.”

“At Academy?”

“Yeah. I think here I'm alright.”

“I think you're very interesting.”

“Yeah, but you're a bit odd.”

“Compared to the wider standard?”

“Compared to any standard.”

She kicks him and drinks again.

“What are we going to do when we leave here?” she wonders, looking forward.

“That's a long way off.”

“Not really,” she says. “Agent Weaver says we'll most likely graduate early.”

“Really?”

“We're already in the more advanced classes. At some point they'll run out of people smart enough to teach us.”

He takes a long pull off the bottle. “I guess I didn't think about that.”

“We won't be students anymore,” she says. He considers that.

“Your heart must be breaking.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I think I've been doing this long enough. I think I want to do real work now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Speaking of which: I designed this thing. I need you to make a thing that goes with it.”

She shrugs. She's pretty used to him requiring her to fill in the gaps in his knowledge. That's just how they work. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He's quiet for a long moment. “I don't think I'm ready to leave quite yet.”

“It's still a while off.”

“You just said it wasn't it!”

“No, no, it is, really. I just. I don't know. I got started thinking about what's next.”

He groans. “I’ve just gotten used to it here. I don't like change.”

“Yes, I know.”

He's taking a swig out of the bottle so he doesn't notice at first as she looks down at him. Big eyes. She should pace herself.

She takes the bottle back. She drinks.

“Thirsty?” he asks.

She swallows, licks her lips. “Not anymore.” As though that satisfied her.

He looks fearful for a moment, but it is just a flash in the pan that she isn’t quite sure even happened. He drinks again.

“I don’t know how you can drink that without grimacing even a little.”

“It’s because, like all Scots, my mother gave birth to me in a whiskey distillery, before anointing me with—”

“ _Alright_.” She pauses. “I like it when you get riled up about Scotland. It’s entertaining.”

“Nobody appreciates it. Except for you.”

“Because I’m English?” He doesn’t answer. She hops a little. “Do you realize, we are a symbol for a perfectly adequate and occasionally antagonistic cohabitation.”

“ _Perfectly_ _adequate_ ,” he repeats. “Of course _you_ say that. I want my independence!”

She kisses him.

She’s a bit pleased she got him by surprise this time; she wasn’t planning it this way (she wasn’t planning it at all, _really_ ) but it’s nice to feel the shock in his system before he engages.

His hands always go for her face, spread against her cheeks, holding her in position as though she might not stay there. He shifts quickly in between her open knees; and she’s glad for the dryer because now she gets to be taller than him, gets to be in control again.

She did not plan this.

There are many things Leopold Fitz is adept at, and kissing is certainly one of them, although she'd be a bit surprised to find it's natural talent. He's got a weird, terrified enthusiasm that's endearing and beckoning and desperate and mostly just nice in a way that makes her want to bite his lip. So she does. Hard. Tugs at him with her teeth, and he doesn’t seem to mind – no, just the opposite. He’s on fire. He's a little stupid with it, getting distracted by every variation in her form. But it's good.

She is setting a wonderful, horrible, very problematic precedent but she can’t find it in her to care. Which is very unlike her. Rather she’s busy raking hands through his hair and swallowing his little sounds to fuel her.

 _Thirsty_?

Yes.

It's not long before she's canting her hips and scooting her ass towards the edge and he's gripping her thighs and kissing down to her neck.

It's also not long before a washing machine buzzes, loud and heart-stopping.

When they break apart she can't look him in the eye, rather just stares down at her thighs in disbelief, breathing hard.

“Why?” Is the first thing he says after a long moment of panting. “Why did you do that?”

“Me?” she shrieks, knowing full well that she is almost entirely to blame. “You were a willing participant!”

“Well yeah, cos if someone is kissing me I'm going to kiss them back. Who knows when it'll happen again. What's your excuse?”

She doesn't have one. Oh my god. She does not have one. “I'm drunk!”

He laughs. Loudly. “We've been drinking for _twenty minutes_.”

She shrugs. It doesn't suit her. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Then she stares at him, pretending to wait. “Aren't you going to switch your laundry?”

He gives her a long, withering look.

And then he switches his laundry.

(They don’t talk about this. Ever.)

 


End file.
